I sat up from the bolsters. Richmond took a deep breath, an attempt to gird himself for the worst. He slowly stood and bowed to the king. When he rose, he chanced a questioning look at me. I gave him a slight nod, as if I were sure I would be able to handle the king on my own. They circled like angry animals facing off with each other, until Richmond’s back was at the door. He stopped for another glance at me, then backed out. If only I could have made the same escape.
“What the hell was he doing here? I told you I don’t approve of him.” King Charles slammed the door shut. “Why don’t you tell me the truth?”
In one great stride he was by my bed. He lifted me by my shoulders and carried me to the toilette table. When my feet hit the floor, I started to push him away, but he yanked my chemise ties loose and spun me around to face the looking glass. In my reflection I saw my own swollen breasts and his eyes behind me. They held more than anger. He knows.
“I would have to hide away to birth it, then tell the world my baby was someone else’s! Or accept the world’s scorn if I own it myself and make the child live an illegitimate life!”
“Damn it, Frances!”
“I won’t make a child live like my mother,” I said flatly.
The anger left his face. “Her situation was different. Your child will have royal blood.”
So he has always known. I shook my head. “I cannot express what it is to live with someone so conflicted, so guarded. If I have a bastard, it will likely expose her and my family. They cannot bear the shame.” It was so personal and profoundly important I thought King Charles would understand.
He threw his hands in the air. “You win. I love you more than my own kingdom, and I’ll not lose you. If you must have our child legitimately, then I will arrange it.”
I stepped back. “W-what do you mean to do?”
He grasped my shoulders in a soft clutch this time. He brought his nose within an inch of mine and whispered, “I shall divorce Queen Catherine and marry you as soon as possible. The archbishop is already working on the details. Catherine will consent, and I can easily get it through the House of Lords.”
No! No! No! “The queen would be devastated. The people like her. Your kingdom is weak and at war. Such a scandal might make them revolt. They beheaded your father.” I shook off his grip and hit his shoulders with my fists. I could hardly feel them connecting, but the blows reverberated through my body. “This is the way to ruin! You will not make me another Anne Boleyn!”
He turned his face, refused to look at me. “Do not leave your chambers. I shall send you to Hampton Court with a small household while I finish this. Then I shall join you and we shall wed privately. I will come to you as often as I can, but you will stay there, secluded, until our child is born.”
I grabbed him. “I’ll not let you do such a dishonorable thing.”
I could see my statement hit him. For an agonizing moment I held my breath.
Then he met my glare. “I’m the king. I’ll have none other than you.”
CHAPTER 55
By thee fell Wolsey and false Clarendon,
Abandon’d by their kings, but here undone;
Both overwhelm’d for daring to remove,
Or stem the torrent of their master’s love.
The one fair Boleyn to his prince deny’d
The other made lov’d Stuart Richmond’s bride
And with the Royal blood forever mingled Hyde.
—LORD SACKVILLE
After he left I vomited, the first time during my pregnancy. For days I debated how to stop him. There was only one way, but Richmond—my means of solving this problem—had disappeared after the king found us. I’d sat in my chambers thinking that if I could get to France, to the Queen Mother’s chilly old convent in Colombes, I might find refuge. Surely the old nuns might let me keep my child? Then I received a blessed missive from Richmond and sent Prudence to tell the queen I was coming to her. When the doors to Queen Catherine’s bedchamber opened, our eyes met. I let her embrace me. “My Queen. I have failed you in every way.”
She pulled away to face me. “Not possible.”
“I have given myself to your husband and am now with child.”
Another woman might have sent me away in a jealous rage. But Queen Catherine, in her generosity, offered reassurance to her husband’s mistress. “Did you think I would hate you? I cannot spite you only because I not have my own shild.”
I knelt before her. “I have come for your advice, for if I do not remove myself from your husband, this will cause ruination for all of us.”
She tried to pull me up, but I only let her have my hands.
“Your Majesty, I leave it to you whether you would have me go to a convent in France or marry my cousin, the Duke of Richmond and Lennox.”
“No nunnery for you.” She put her hands on my shoulders and studied my face. “Does Richmond know about the shild?”
“Yes. He will make it his heir and hopes for prospects through my favor with the king.”
“No favor from Sharles. He will go mad!”
“So you see. You must guide me. Do you think the king would … ever forgive me?”
She thought quietly. “I—perhaps.”
Minutes later I sent a secret missive to Richmond. And waited.
* * *
King Charles came to me each morning, each moment a masquerade. I was memorizing each look, the contours of his face, the feel of his mustache, the tone of his voice. The last night, long after I’d gone to bed, King Charles appeared, as if he’d sensed something amiss.
“Are you well?” he asked. He leaned into my bed and kissed me.
It was all I could do to keep the tears in. I embraced him, and he caressed my waist, kissed my belly, and whispered, “I’ll be a loving husband to you, Frances.” He wrapped his arms around my hips and pressed his cheek into my skin. “I would rip the British flag apart and use it to tie you here if I thought I could really keep your spirit with me.”
Then, mercifully, he slipped away.
With him went my very heart. With him went all I loved and wanted in the world, the childish belief that I could make him honorable and that we could be happy together. It all went with him, and I knew I might never have those things back, never be whole again. I did not sleep. I did not cry. I was a motionless, boneless, empty thing except for the occasional flutter within that reminded me of my purpose, the only part of Charles I would have now. Some recess of my mind was working, and I knew the hour by the waning calls of the watermen on the river, the toll of occasional church bells echoing over London. Eventually I checked my watch, careful not to look at the enamel picture, and knew it was time.
I stepped out of bed and donned one of my best bodices, one that laced in front so I did not have to wake Mary or Prudence. I put on knee breeches and sturdy, old boots. In a sack, I stuffed silk mules wrapped in finer petticoats. Pulling the draw cord over my shoulder, I checked my watch again, then slipped it into my hanging pocket. I tied on my black velvet cloak, lined with fur, lifted the hood, placed the letter where I knew he’d find it, and left everything else behind.
My own Dearest Heart,
I beg you to forgive my marrying myself to another, though it be the only way I know to prevent you the dishonoring of your kingship, your queen, and your country only for the sake of yourself marrying me, one who I implore you to believe is ever your faithful love and who will return to your side with haste and everlasting affection,
FS
Leaving the king’s apartments by the back stairs, I crossed the Life Guards with my head down. Trained to be discreet, they saw no threat in the passing of a lady. There was a long courtyard off the king’s quarters, a gate, then another courtyard. I passed quietly by the connecting houses on soft earth, but through another gate there was a cobbled outdoor passage. I crept so as not to wake the doctors, pages, and noble persons inhabiting the adjacent chambers. When I finally burst into the Pebble Court, the quiet, dark openness envelo
ped me. The massive Banqueting House glowed faintly white despite the cloudy night sky. I avoided the wooden walks and tiptoed on the pavers.
I chose to leave by Court Gate because it would get me out of Whitehall, with its thousands of eyes, quickest. But that route had the most Life Guards and Horse Guards, too. Their hushed laughter subsided as I approached. With my face guarded by my hood, they did not recognize me and did not call me back. And so I slipped through.
Along Whitehall Street I kept to the paved walk by the palace wall. With my face still down, I finally stole past the last set of guards at the gate to Scotland Yard. I held my breath, hurrying on, and hoped I’d given them no cause to follow me.
Their jovial banter faded as I walked toward the city. Across the street I heard the lewd words and laughter of drunken men and coarse female voices making their way to the entrance of St. James’s Park. The elegant homes by the palace made this area safer than parts I had yet to pass, but a thundering rush pulsed in my ears and I hastened my pace. If I pressed on and paid them no heed, they might not bother me. I probably had as much to fear from the Life Guards at Whitehall if King Charles discovered my absence.
The open expanse of Charing Cross to my left caused my boot steps to echo in the darkness. I had reached the Strand. I looked up and left, in the direction of St. Martin’s Church. If there was a parish watchman in the tower, I couldn’t see him. No hackney coaches were out for hire at this hour. I longed for a sedan chair, a carriage, even a carthorse to carry me.
As the road curved, I looked straight ahead and felt a fresh rush of fear. It was so dark. The affluent homes in this area normally kept the proscribed candle lanterns out, but I was shocked at how few were lit.
As I passed under one of them, I brought my watch under my nose. We would just make it to Ludgate before it closed for the night. I had to find a link-boy to light my way.
Male voices floating over the darkness caught my ear, and I searched the shadows. I spotted their outlines several houses ahead, heads together, huddled under a lantern. One of them turned, suddenly brandishing a lit link. The other figure disappeared into the alley.
Every muscle in my body jolted. Oh, Lord God, what am I doing here?
The remaining figure called out, “Do ye want light?”
My breath halted. I took a step back. It was a deep male voice. This was not a link-boy but a man. And another man now lurked somewhere unseen. I have to go back.
I turned and walked quickly away, back to the palace, back to the coarse-speaking women outside St. James’s Park, back to the palace guards.
“Do ye want light?” The voice was louder … or was it closer?
I ran. The blood rushing in my ears and my own panting made it difficult to hear, but I thought I heard footsteps behind me. Or was it hooves on the cobbles? I dared not look back, ran harder, faster.
All of a sudden four men on horseback galloped, not from Whitehall but from around the corner of Charing Cross ahead on the right. There was nowhere to run. I turned around and the man was no longer following me. So I ran again, this time away from the horses. Somerset House was at the end of the Strand, if I could just get there …
“You there!”
I kept running. If they caught me and raped me, what would happen to my baby? I had to get away.
“Frances!”
The voice and horses were just behind me. Four more men on horseback appeared ahead, blocking Somerset House. Why have I done this foolish thing? I turned and shook a gate, but it was locked. I heard myself cry out.
“Frances!”
I raised my fists and turned around, ready to flail at whoever came near me.
He caught my wrists before they fell on him. My cousin Richmond. “Hurry, mount up!”
My breath left me all at once, and I felt myself fall.
He caught me firmly. “What’s wrong with you?”
“There were men…” My voice sounded weak.
He shouted at the men on horseback. “Payne, your four will flank us. You two close behind. Lee, go ahead with the torch.” He turned back to me. “Can you ride?”
I nodded.
He mounted quickly. One of his men appeared at my side, hoisting me up so I was pillion in front of Richmond.
“To get through unscathed, we have to ride hard. Can you stay on this way?”
The only thought I could muster was that straddling a horse might somehow hurt the baby. So I settled in, gripped the saddle as best I could with my backside, and nodded.
Richmond wrapped his arms around me to grasp the reins. He kicked his horse into a trot while his men fell into stride around us. When we were at a canter, I had to lean forward, grasping the horse’s mane to keep my seat.
We passed the New Exchange and Somerset House in minutes. Once we were through the arches of Temple Bar and on to Fleet Street, demolished houses and shops rose into view and quickly diminished. Suddenly we were over Fleet Bridge, Fleet Hill, and at Ludgate. But it didn’t look like Ludgate anymore. There was hardly enough light to inspect it as we slowed to navigate the cleared passage among the blackened rubble.
I hadn’t come farther than Somerset House since the Great Fire and hadn’t yet seen the entirety of its aftermath. Every shop and house that once stood was torn down or left a charred shell. I was bewildered by the sight, so unlike what it had been before.
Richmond kicked our pace up again on our way over Ludgate Hill. I almost didn’t recognize the cavernous remains of St. Paul’s Cathedral as we dashed around it.
There were no lights. By Lee’s torch I saw quick glimpses of tumbled brick, burned wood, and ruins everywhere except the street. These were cleared wide and lined with fresh wood pilings staked into the ground: markings for a new road. When we arrived on Thames Street, I realized the air carried ash and singe instead of offal and filth.
We covered ground faster than would have been possible in the city before. With no jutting houses or hanging trade signs to duck, no carts or carriages to maneuver, no apparent sign of life anywhere, our going was clear.
Yet there was life lurking among the ruins. Some of the shadowed shapes resembled shanties. Once, I thought I saw an animal’s eyes glitter with torchlight. They peered at us, gleaming from a blackened face. The figure stood, fled through the ruins. I saw it was actually a small boy and shuddered.
Our troop clattered to a halt at London Bridge. Lee doled out coins to a bleary-eyed warden, and we trotted past. Buildings that had once stood on this end of the bridge had burned and were replaced by little sheds.
Richmond’s voice behind my ear carried on the open river air. “When you said to meet you at Somerset House, I assumed you’d be there all evening. You weren’t waiting. I panicked and ordered a search.”
“I stayed at the palace late so as not to raise suspicion.”
“Did the men you saw hurt you?”
“No.”
“Praise God.” His voice caught.
Then we entered the half of the bridge where houses and shops still stood. Horse hooves echoed in the dim tunnel, and we rode single file to avoid the hanging trade signs on each side.
At the bridge foot, I spotted Richmond’s carriage. We veered right and came to a halt outside a tavern. Its sign, swinging in the river wind, bore a painting of a chained and muzzled bear. We dismounted, and the men took the horses to the front of the carriage to harness. Richmond pulled me to the wall between the windows of the tavern, tugging my hood around my face as he did.
Just then the tavern door swung open, and a man staggered onto the street in our direction. Lee bumped into him, pretending he hadn’t seen the man, then apologized and walked him some paces away, distracting him from us.
“We can’t risk anyone recognizing you from court,” whispered Richmond as he guided me to the carriage. “Get in.”
He closed the door and blackness enveloped us. “We’ll take the Dover Road to Kent. It doesn’t appear that Life Guards followed you. We should be at Cobham Hall before
morning. My chaplain is waiting there.” He paused. “You’re certain this is what you want?”
“Yes,” I whispered, one hand on my belly.
CHAPTER 56
… I reflect on the old passion the king felt for her when she was at court as a girl, simply a maid of honor; his rages at her clandestine marriage; Castlemaine’s jealousy;… and finally above everything else her angelic and wonderful beauty.
—LORENZO MAGALOTTI,
Italian philosopher, author, diplomat, and poet
In the gray of predawn, after a sleepless night, we broke our fast with Richmond’s chaplain. The wedding he officiated afterward was brief and clumsy. I was too spent to care. When we left the chapel and entered the central wing of Cobham Hall, I faced Richmond’s tired eyes and realized I was a duchess. We looked at each other for a moment in uneasy silence, unsure what to do. What do you say on your wedding day to a husband that is not really a husband?
Without absorbing my surroundings, I had hastily donned the clean skirts and shoes from my sack, and discarded the filthy ones I’d worn through the city. From the little I’d seen, Cobham was magnificent.
“We’ll go back to your mother’s Somerset lodgings and then send for your things.”
I smoothed my skirts and tugged at my bodice. “That would be best. And we shall hear how news of our wedding is received at court.” And how King Charles receives it. I raised a weary hand to rub my eyes.
Richmond grasped his hands behind his back. “But perhaps we should begin this union with some rest?”
I nodded gratefully, not speaking because I didn’t trust my voice not to break, and let his servant show me to my chambers.
* * *
Cobham Hall was a stately pink-red brick estate sprouting clusters of chimneys all along its roofline. The wings were massive Elizabethan structures, with octagonal turrets rising from each end. The next morning, I saw why Richmond loved the place so dearly. It was easy to be with him as he showed me around. He asserted with pride that Queen Elizabeth had stayed here twice. Both wings were joined by a newly finished central limb. He had completed its construction based on designs by the great Inigo Jones, which prior Stuarts had been forced to abandon during the Civil Wars. Richmond pointed out each detail of the estate with sweeping gestures, but as I walked the length of the elegant great hall, listening to his plans to have it gilded, I could think of nothing but moving on to Somerset House.
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